Three Months
by willywonka3435
Summary: Wilson hasn't been touched in three months. House solves the problem. Not really slash, unless you squint. A lot. Oh, and it's my first fanfic, so... please R&R. : Thanks.


**Three Months**

It was raining, Wilson thought idly as he leaned against the wall of his office staring out the window. It was raining, and the sky was gray, and the water poured down, and it was oddly appropriate.

He'd gotten the divorce papers that morning.

Looking back, he supposed he'd known it would happen for quite awhile, ever since she started coming home late again, wearing that perfume he knew wasn't for him, attending meetings of a book club that didn't exist. But she hadn't even left him a note. He'd woken up and reached down to greet Charley, and Charley hadn't been there.

She'd taken his dog.

His dog.

It was when Charley was gone that Wilson knew.

He'd stepped out of bed and headed down to the kitchen, and there on the table, strangely incongruous amid her cluster of ridiculously elegant place settings, was the familiar manila folder.

The first thing he'd done was have a drink, a nice, tall shot of whiskey, and once he downed that one, he figured if someone was going to have as bad a day as he was, why not start it off right, and had another. And another. And then he thought, well, the day hadn't improved yet, and topped things off with one more.

They hadn't touched in three months, two days, four hours, and—he turned and studied the wall clock—twenty-six seconds.

No one had touched him in three months, two days, four hours, and—thirty-one seconds now. Not so much as a brush of hands when the bagger passed him his groceries. Not even that.

It was stupid for him to keep track, he knew, but there were times, days, when he just needed touch. He was tired of walking around the hospital pretending that everything was okay, that his marriage was wonderful, that his job couldn't be better, aching. And he did ache. The need for human contact was so strong in him that it often became a physical pain, a burning sensation just under the surface of his skin. He wanted—he _needed_—someone to care for him.

The first marriage had been his fault. House told him that he'd been young, a pup, it was acceptable that he'd cheated—House said actually that he wouldn't have been considered "cool" if he hadn't and the Gods of Marriage wouldn't let him turn thirty otherwise—and tried to reassure him in his own demented way, but Wilson knew House was lying, and Wilson knew the truth. If he'd been strong, if he'd resisted the urge when he knew it was wrong, his marriage might have lasted.

It was his fault, only his fault.

The second marriage had been her fault.

That one he was okay with accepting.

That time it'd been the pool boy.

And now the third marriage—the third marriage was her fault, too, but hadn't he had a hand in things? Maybe if he'd been just a little more caring, just a little more considerate, just a little warmer, just a little _something_, she might not have felt the need to find someone else. She might have stayed with him.

She might have left the dog. Goddamn it, she might have left the _dog._

And that hadn't been the worst part of his day. Three patients had had to be informed of their impending death, and two had died. That was five people, five innocent people, dying or dead. Five he hadn't fixed.

Four of them were under the age of ten.

Wilson sighed. He shifted position and pressed his forehead to the cold glass of the window. Drops of rain slid down the panes less than an inch away from his nose. For some reason, he needed to be out there. Needed the water falling on his body, needed the sense that things would be all right again. Needed the contact. The acknowledgment that someone, some_thing_, knew he was alive.

So he opened the door to his balcony and stepped outside.

The city was drenched, the air so thick he couldn't see more than ten feet without encountering a cloudy gray bank of fog. The skies were pouring. The ground was already puddled. Wilson was soaked within seconds. He took a few steps forward and stood by the edge of the twelve-foot drop.

Four children, three marriages, and one Wilson.

Standing alone.

And they'd _thanked _him. That was the worst part.

"Mrs. Ortiz, I'm sorry to tell you this, but I have some bad news.

"Some very bad news.

"Jorge doesn't have long to live.

"No, I'm afraid not more than three months, tops."

"Thank you, Doctor.

"Thank you for being my Doctor Wilson."

"Hey, there are better places to stand than in a downpour. Like under Niagara Falls, if you're _really _looking for thrills."

Wilson knew who it was. He didn't turn around. He didn't have to.

"Four of them today," he said quietly.

"Four what? Chickens, turkeys, or hamsters?"

"K-Kids," said Wilson. He was ashamed of his own voice. It betrayed him.

House stepped forward. "Going to beat yourself up over this, too? If so, can you at least do it inside? I don't want to get any more wet than necessary."

"I c-can't do this any more."

"You know, this sounds familiar. I've had enough of the reruns, Wilson. You may be PPTH's Boy Wonder Oncologist, Cuddy's whore, but you can't save everyone, and you have to stop trying."

Now Wilson turned around. Tears ran from his eyes and mingled with the rain on his cheeks, but House knew which was which.

"Wait a minute. That's not all this is about, is it?"

"No."

"Who was it this time? TV repairman? Binky the Clown?"

"Look," Wilson snapped, eyes hardening, swiping angrily at his face with the back of one wet hand. "I didn't ask you to come find me. I didn't ask you for anything, and I sure as _hell _didn't ask you for advice." He stepped forward and brushed by House, grasping the knob of the balcony door and closing it behind him. "I have to go."

"Oh, no you don't!" said House, pulling the door open the instant Wilson shut it and following him inside. "No way, Jose, you ain't getting off that easy."

Wilson didn't even stop. He walked straight into his office, sat down on the couch, removed his shoes, and lay with his face to the wall. This was his way of letting House know that the subject was closed. Of course, he knew House didn't give a damn.

"Staying here again, I see. Has she filed yet?"

Wilson didn't answer.

House sighed. He didn't do compassionate. "Hey, at least you've still got Charley."

There was a strange noise from the couch. It wasn't as undignified as a sniffle. It was more of a choked inhalation, and the sound was so destroyed, so torn apart, so _sad _that House began, for the first time, to worry. He limped across the room and tapped Wilson's shoulder.

"Wilson?" he said.

Wilson didn't answer.

House sighed again. So he was going to have to do it the hard way. He might've just left if it had been anyone else, but this was Wilson, and his conscience just wouldn't let him leave, even if he tried. And oh, did he want to try. Instead, he grasped Wilson and pulled until James rolled over to face him. His face was contorted with sorrow, his eyes pressed tightly shut, and as House watched a sole fat tear slid down his right cheek. As House held him, Wilson didn't move.

Three months. Three months since he'd been touched. He didn't want to, but he savored House's cane-roughened hand against his skin (well, through his shirt) like he would have the priciest diamonds.

His wife wouldn't come near him. Wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole.

But House would.

"Hey, Jimmy, cat got your tongue?" House said, hoping to piss him off enough to get a response.

There was no further noise, but another tear crept in the path of the first. Wilson didn't budge. House did, hesitantly reaching out a thumb and brushing away the salty drop, because Wilson never cried. And Wilson groaned, a sound originating from deep in his soul, a sound filled with so much pain that House frowned and promptly forgot he didn't do compassion.

"James. James, are you all right?" House said.

"No," said Wilson, one word, but it told House the world. "No, I'm not all right. Do you know something, House?"

"Besides that Cuddy secretly sells her own swimsuit calendars? No, what?"

Wilson opened his right eye and glanced at the wall behind House. "Three months, two days, four hours, sixteen minutes, and eight seconds."

"Uh-huh."

"Since anyone's—" Wilson's voice trailed away. He knew House didn't go for that sort of thing, and it was an embarrassing admission under the best of circumstances.

"Since anyone's fucked you? What?"

"Since anyone's—since anyone's touched me." Wilson's voice cracked and he began quietly sobbing, tears leaking down his cheeks, falling onto the collar of his shirt.

House hadn't expected that.

"Thanks," Wilson said brokenly, and for some reason, he felt a strange kinship with the young patients he'd spoken to earlier, the children who were grateful when he said they were going to die.

"You're welcome," said House gruffly, and rubbed away another tear. "And now you can stop counting."

_fin_


End file.
